Control Tower
by alden prime
Summary: One day, Miranda comes to a terrible conclusion: she's really, really into Commander Jane Shepard. It started off as aloof respect of her abilities, turned to admiration, jealousy, friendship, and now here she is, looking at Shepard when she laughs hard and those freckled cheeks bunch up and ... oh, no. This is really inconvenient.
1. Chapter 1

Alternate title: "Oh no, I'm gay!"

For this delightful kinkmeme prompt: masseffectkink dot livejournal dot com/9521 dot html?view=45260337#t45260337

See summary for the main points. However, anon specified some bonus content:

\+ Shepard obliviously turning poor Miranda on when she bends over to pick up something, when she works out, etc.  
\+ Miranda's shower is broken, so she showers in the women's bathroom, and Shepard walks in for her own shower.  
\+ Jack noticing and making fun.  
\+ Oblivious Shepard.  
\+ Tsundere Miranda.

* * *

 **1.**

Miranda Lawson has spent five point eight percent of her life staring at Commander Jane Shepard's inert body. Five point eight percent of her life spent burning a three-dimensional portrait of the woman into her brain. Nanometer by nanometer, up, over, and deep. Watching fresh, wet blood perfuse her shriveled cells. Watching her lungs rise and fall. Watching gas concentrations bloom and fade on the monitors.

Now that body is up and moving and _talking_ to her and she doesn't know quite what to do. The rhythm of her life over the last two years has been knocked permanently off-beat.

Shepard herself is disoriented, a little unsteady, but coping. Given the content of her CV, she's probably become accustomed to finding herself in completely insane situations. The questions she asks Jacob are blunt and to the point. She even cracks a dry one-liner.

Miranda feels a flush of— something. Pride? The long, grinding hours spent staring at tangled masses of neurons under the electron microscope, the permanent ache in her back and neck, all the times she just stopped and put her head down on her desk and wondered what the hell she was even trying to do—

It worked. She did it. Commander Shepard is alive and awake and alert and _herself._

Shepard straightens up to her full, improbable height, and looks over directly at Miranda. Her gaze is intense. Intelligent. And alarmed.

Miranda blinks and tunes back in to the moment. Rewinds the last five seconds of overheard conversation through her brain.

Ah. "Cerberus."

When uncomfortable, Miranda falls back on habit. Crosses her arms. Hears her own voice going cold, clipped.

She's frequently uncomfortable. This situation isn't helping. Her subject— her project— _five point eight percent of her life_ has just gotten up and walked away from her.

 _How about a 'thank you,'_ part of her wants to scream.

The rest of her thinks furious, impotent thoughts about that control chip she wasn't allowed to use.

* * *

It's impressive, watching her life's work at work. Shepard is strange combination of careful and tactical and utterly fearless, and it doesn't even make sense but Miranda and Jacob fall into her orbit anyway. Entire platoons of mechs crumble under their advance.

Shepard's face lights up when they find her former squadmate— going by vas Neema, now— but fades when the quarian makes it clear she won't be joining them. She flatly rejects Miranda's attempt to bring in the traumatized witness for interrogation. And she still gets that hard look on her face whenever someone says the word "Cerberus."

The scars are healing nicely, though. Wilson had thought it would take a lot longer for the epidermis to gel around the weave.

* * *

Shepard's happy to see Chakwas and Moreau again. Smart move, recruiting them ahead of time; the Illusive Man had thought a few familiar faces would help her shed some of her native wariness.

The sheer delight in her voice when they reach Archangel knocks Miranda back.

(That's something else to be pissed off about, later. Vakarian? Her favorite squadmate? Seriously, _no one_ in intel figured this out beforehand?)

When he agrees to join, Shepard— there's no other phrase for it— comes to life. Her whole body straightens. Her voice rises in pitch. She _laughs._ Steps forward and slaps the turian on his armored shoulder.

Irritating. They didn't want to provide her with _this_ much support, so early on. They wanted her to have to start relying on the Cerberus crew. To rely on Miranda. To get used to her, to all of them, even if only as a necessary evil.

Shepard's cheeks are flushed, her eyes sparkling.

Miranda scowls out the window, and takes a dark satisfaction in trashing the first wave of Blood Pack.

* * *

Shepard comes to her office to talk to her. Her eyes are still wary, but her body language is open, friendly. Miranda tries to mirror her. To be welcoming, to the best of her limited ability.

It's still weird. Shepard's living, breathing body, watching her. Talking to her.

One of the many late nights alone in the lab, Miranda had started talking to herself. She'd been trying to brute force her way through a problem: a cellular matrix she'd implanted refused to connect to freshly cloned tissue. The matrix was sterile, porous, guaranteed by its manufacturer to meet specifications; the tissue was just regular god-damned fast-twitch muscle fiber, so what the _hell_ was the matter with it—

Somehow, the sound of her own voice stopped her from going completely insane that night. She didn't solve the problem then, but figured it out after a long (and desperately needed) nap.

When she woke up, Shepard's stress hormones had lowered significantly, and her brainwave activity was stabilizing.

Miranda kept up the habit after that. Even turned it into a conversation, leaving pauses for Shepard's imaginary responses. In her head, by the end of it, they had become terrific work partners.

Thirty-five years old, and her best friend was imaginary.

Thirty-five and a half, and her best friend is now real, but doesn't remember any of it.

* * *

Oriana. Oriana. Oriana. _Oriana_.

She's safe. She's standing right there, across the plaza, with her family. Her posture is relaxed; she's smiling. Thank god. She's safe.

Miranda's shaky and drained, from nerves, and overuse of biotics, and from the deep, bitter ache of losing Niket twice; first to her father, then to Enyala. Almost to herself. She holds herself upright by sheer force of will.

"Go talk to her," Shepard says, and gives her a nudge.

It's the first time they've touched outside of combat. She looks up at Shepard.

Her life's work looks back at her, her eyes warm, her face crinkling in a smile. "Go on. You want to, don't you?"

There's no wariness in her expression at all.

"Yes," Miranda murmurs, surprised at the relief and happiness washing through her. "I do."

* * *

Miranda watches her all the more closely after that. Shepard circles through the ship, smiling, shaking hands, patting shoulders, bumping elbows. Dropping one-liners. Doing favors. Jacob doesn't say much, but after Aeia, she's pretty sure he'd follow Shepard anywhere.

She touches _everyone_. Everyone except her.

Miranda grabs a towel and gym clothes and goes down to the treadmill in the shuttle bay to run out her frustration.

Everyone loves her. Respects her. Everyone wants to follow her. Do things for her. Please her. Make her laugh, in that wide, delighted way she has.

Her feet thud against the mat.

The door hisses open. Shepard steps in, a towel slung over her shoulder and a water bottle in her hand, all freckled biceps and long, muscular legs. "Hey."

Miranda looks over at her, wide-eyed, misses a step, and almost face-plants on the treadmill bar.

"Sorry!" Shepard's at her side in a flash. "Didn't mean to startle you. You okay?"

"Fine," Miranda pants, clinging to the bar for dear life, feet planted on the edges of the platform. The treadmill whirrs emptily underneath her.

Shepard glances over at her numbers. "Wow. You're fast."

Miranda scrapes together what's left of her equilibrium. "Of course I am."

"And a hard worker," Shepard says, pointing at the count on the machine's timer. Damn. Had she really been down here that long?

"I don't want you running yourself ragged, Miranda. Uh, pun not intended. Here. Take a break." Shepard holds out her water bottle.

Miranda looks down at her for a moment, then powers off the machine, and takes it. Their fingertips brush.

"Thanks," she says. "Sometimes I can get a little... single-minded."

"I can tell," Shepard says. "It's an asset. As long as you have someone around to remind you to take care of yourself."

Like Shepard, constantly taking care of everyone. Equally kind to everyone. Human and alien and Cerberus alike.

Miranda tips her head back and gulps the water, not bothering to be elegant. Wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. A drop slides down her wrist.

"Thanks," she says again, and hands the bottle back.

Is she imagining it? Or does a flash of— something— cross Shepard's synthetic eyes? "Anytime."

Miranda watches her as she goes over to the weight rack. Shepard stacks an impressive number of plates onto the bar in the squat cage. Settles it over her shoulders, and steps out, arms flexed, legs taut.

Miranda doesn't need to stand there watching Shepard's muscles slide and bunch under the smooth, pale surface of her skin. She's done enough tests. She knows they work.

She pats her face dry, and leaves.

* * *

Miranda's losing it. She's losing the crew. Despite their grim purpose, the ship hums with good cheer; Hadley and Matthews rib each other as they move through the mess. Gardner drawls a hello, and Patel actually _smiles_ at her as she passes by. Miranda almost smiles back before she catches herself.

No one is scared of her anymore. Shepard's invisible warmth has settled around them, one and all. She's charmed the krogan, softened the turian, reformed the convict. And now, for an encore, she's successfully humanized the perfect human.

The Illusive Man's private emails to her are becoming terse. _Recruit her. By any means necessary. Find a way._

Even the bloody A.I. likes her. It makes Miranda sick with jealousy.

She feels herself opening up, whenever Shepard comes by to talk; her body relaxes, her face softens. She glows under Shepard's attention, like a plant stretching towards the sun. Finds herself smiling, for no reason, an hour afterwards. She hates every second of it.

The real woman outclasses her imaginary friend in every way, except one: now Miranda has to share.

She doesn't tell the Illusive Man about that part.

* * *

Miranda observes Shepard, takes note of her schedule, her little idiosyncrasies. She spends almost no time in her cabin. Works on mission reports in the mess hall. Uses the communal bathroom. She seems to hate being alone.

Miranda picks up her towel and shower caddy, firms her mouth, and steps out of her office.

In the women's room, she picks the stall second from the door, the one with the best light. Throws her towel over the edge. Pulls out her expensive, rosemary-scented shampoo.

"Operative Lawson, the shower in your quarters is fully operational."

"Thank you, EDI, I'm aware."

By any means necessary.

Shepard barges in, humming under her breath, towel over her arm. Miranda's facing forward, her back arched, her arms stretched up, working her hands through the mass of dark hair piled on top of her head. Expensive, rosemary-scented bubbles slide down her shining body.

The light is just so.

Shepard pauses. Swallows? "Miranda."

"Shepard," Miranda replies smoothly, and carries on.

When Shepard tosses her uniform over the edge of the stall next to hers, Miranda realizes she may not have thought this plan all the way through.

Water hisses. Shepard resumes humming. Her voice is low, smoky, pleasant.

Bare, freckly feet pad over the tile. Shepard stands in front of her, glistening and statuesque and— god. Miranda can feel her face heating up. Her heart kicks into double-time. "—Yes?"

"Can I borrow your shampoo? I have my own, but... yours smells amazing."

"It should," Miranda says, pink-cheeked. "It cost entirely too much." She hands over the bottle.

Shepard grins at her. Their fingers brush again. "Thanks."

 _Damnit._

* * *

Back in her office, hair still damp, she paces. Resists the urge to throw things. Which one of them is recruiting the other? Which one of them is seduci—

No. Don't be ridiculous. Shepard is one hell of a physical specimen; Miranda knows this better than anyone. That doesn't mean she wants to—

A knock on her door. She whirls. "Who is it?"

"Me."

 _Damnit!_

The door hisses open. Miranda drops heavily into her desk chair. "What do you need?"

Shepard peers down at her. Wet clumps of hair curl around the curve of her cheek. "Nothing. Just wanted to check on you. You seem a little stressed, lately."

A bead of water falls down and splashes onto her shoulder.

Miranda drops her face into her hands.

"...How do you do it," she says, muffled.

"What?"

Miranda makes a vague, one-handed gesture at the ship surrounding them. "Everyone here looks up to you, you know. They _love_ you. Say the word, and they'd follow you down into hell itself."

She hears the sound of Shepard shifting her weight. "I don't think—"

"It's true," Miranda says, shortly.

Shepard lets out her breath. Comes around to Miranda's side of the desk, and sits down on the corner.

Miranda tugs her datapad out to safety before the screen can crack under the woman's well-muscled butt.

"Sorry," Shepard murmurs, smiling.

"This crew began as Cerberus," Miranda says, frustration hot and aching in her throat. "They began as mine, but now they're _yours._ It's only been a month. And the worst part is, I can't even blame them."

Shepard looks down at her scarred hands for a long moment.

Miranda waits in silence.

"I didn't realize who you really were for a long time," Shepard says, quietly.

"What? What do you—" Shepard lifts a finger, and Miranda subsides.

"You put on a— mask, kind of, when you speak to others. Your voice changes. I didn't connect the dots until that day we went to rescue Oriana." Shepard tilts her head. Looks down at her. "But it really was you, the entire time, wasn't it?"

Miranda looks back at her, wide-eyed. "What do you mean?"

"The voice that talked to me. Told me stories. Worked through problems. Explained all sorts of technical details that I still don't understand." Shepard's eyes crinkle in a smile. "Bitched about the rest of the staff."

Miranda's cheeks flush. "What— You— you _remember?"_

Shepard leans in closer. Her voice lowers. Her smile turns wicked. "You sang me _lullabies."_

Miranda's face goes scarlet. "Get out of my office this instant."

"No," Shepard says, good-naturedly.

"Damnit—" Miranda stands and slaps her palms flat against the desk. Freezes when Shepard reaches down and takes her hand in her own.

Shepard squeezes her fingers. "Miranda. I was half-awake, half-dreaming. Everything felt wrong. I didn't know who I was, or what was real. But you were there, and you talked to me. You were my anchor."

Miranda is still frozen.

"You brought me back," Shepard says, watching her intently. "And you kept me sane."

Miranda can't meet her eyes. Looks instead at the line of the scarring— almost invisible, now— that wraps from Shepard's pale temple, down along her cheekbone, to the straight, finely cut edge of her jaw.

Shepard's voice is low and very soft. "Thank you."

Miranda's eyes snap back up to hers.

No one has actually ever told her "Thank you."

Just "Good work, Lawson" or "That will be all" or "Acknowledged."

The ache in her throat burns. Her lower lip trembles.

 _Say the word, and I'll follow you down into hell itself._

"...Please leave," she manages.

Shepard squeezes her hand once more, eyes full of concern, and goes.

Miranda collapses back into her seat and buries her face in her arms.

* * *

A short while later, her omni-tool blinks with a message.

 _You have a really pretty voice._ _-JS_

Miranda presses her hands to her burning cheeks, and curses the day she joined Lazarus Cell.


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

She throws herself into work. Mission reports. Duty rotas and crew evaluations. Priority ranking of upcoming assignments and recruitment missions. Locations of key mineral deposits along their route. Updates to the Illusive Man (heavily edited).

Sometime around midnight, her stomach growls. Gardner's off-duty, but she wanders out to the darkened mess to see if she can scavenge something.

The convict leans back in a chair in the middle of the room, her grungy boots propped up on the table. She grins nastily around a mouthful of energy bar. "Cheerleader."

"Jack," Miranda replies coolly, and carries on towards the fridge.

"Oh, hey, Shepard," the convict adds, looking out somewhere beyond her shoulder, and Miranda stiffens.

The horrible little biotic bursts out laughing. "—Oh, _man._ Your _FACE._ I wasn't sure, before, but now—"

Miranda turns on her, fists flaring with electricity. "Would you like to take this conversation to the shuttle bay? It's late, and I don't want to disturb the crew." _While I'm smashing your skull in._

Jack just grins at her, protein mash smeared across her teeth. "Nah. I'm good right here. Got exactly what I want."

Miranda glares at her. Reaches into the nearest cabinet, rips out a handful of energy bars, and stalks back to her room. "Sleep tight, Jack."

"You too," Jack calls, in a sing-song.

* * *

Miranda sits out the next few ground missions. Shepard still drops by her office for after-action debriefings, overall strategy, material resource allocations, the usual administrative stuff. Her face is less expressive than before, her body language withdrawn.

She's just respecting Miranda's wishes, of course. Her need for space. But at one point Miranda looks up from her datapad while speaking and catches Shepard watching her, a wrinkle between her brows, her lower lip pushed up.

Did Miranda really hurt hero of the Citadel, Commander Jane Shepard's _feelings?_ She can't quite believe it. She dives back into her datapad during a lull in the conversation, pretending to read. Casts her mind back over their last conversation.

 _You brought me back. You kept me sane. Thank you._

 _Please leave._

...Yeah, okay.

"I'm sorry, Shepard."

Shepard lifts her eyes from her own datapad.

Miranda hunches forward over her desk. Rubs her forehead. "I'm sorry. I wasn't... I was rude to you."

Shepard's face arranges itself in a politely neutral mask. "It's okay. I was laying it on a little thick."

"No, you weren't. I just panicked." Miranda extends her hand across the surface of the desk, palm up, fingers open. "Thank you for telling me what you remembered. I'm... well, I'm embarrassed, obviously. But I'm glad all the talking helped you." She offers a tiny smile. "And maybe the lullabies, too."

Shepard looks down at Miranda's hand for a moment, then takes it. Her palm is warm. Heavy.

"Thanks," she says, and squeezes.

Miranda squeezes back, and watches Shepard's face thaw and soften before her eyes.

"Amazing," she murmurs, without really meaning to.

Shepard's eyebrows lift. "What is?"

"Oh. Well." _Crap._ Miranda glances away. "It's nothing you haven't heard before. Just that I spent quite a long time getting to know you as a body on an operating table. You were comatose, or worse, for over two years. But now you're up, and moving, and talking, and—" she gestures, "— _you_. It's quite a difference. I still get surprised sometimes."

"You do good work," Shepard says, smiling. She still hasn't let go of Miranda's hand.

Miranda laughs a little. Lets her eyes trail over Shepard's face, down the long, hard line of her throat. Across her broad, well-muscled shoulders. "I suppose I do. But you did it right the first time around."

Shepard's eyes darken. Her voice lowers. "Miranda—"

EDI's voice thrums overhead. "Shepard, I am sorry to interrupt. The Illusive Man needs to speak with you in the communications room. He has discovered an inert Collector ship in the Korlus system."

Shepard relinquishes Miranda's hand. "I'm on my way."

* * *

Shepard brings her along for the Collector ship infiltration.

It is a bloody _nightmare._

Massani takes a bad hit from the Praetorian. Medi-gel stabilizes it, but he can't move any faster than a shuffle, or he'll rupture something. Miranda grits her teeth and fires a Warp at the glowing Collector. Shepard takes aim with her Vindicator, and puts it down the rest of the way.

They really could have used another biotic.

They really could have used about three additional people.

 _Why_ did the Illusive Man think this was a good idea?

Shepard slings Massani's arm over her shoulders. His bitten-off curse crackles over their comm link.

"Shepard—" Miranda blanches. They're already outgunned. Now she'll only have half an arm free.

"Miranda, I'm sorry, but you're on point. You can't carry him and use biotics at the same time."

 _Just leave him behind._ She grits her teeth and turns. "Acknowledged."

By the time they round the corner back to the shuttle, Shepard's armor is burnt, badly, and her O2 line has a slow leak. Miranda's scorched and limping after a Scion wrenched her off her feet. Before that, a husk bit her elbow, and the joint has swelled and stiffened. Massani— useless— just leans heavily against Shepard, and laughs. Probably in shock. Internal bleeding.

"Double-time," Shepard snaps, and hustles them forward.

The shuttle pilot slams the hatch shut behind them. The instant the cabin's sealed and repressurized, Shepard rips her helmet off and throws it to the ground, panting, her eyes wide, white all around the green.

The shuttle tears out of the Collector vessel and streaks back to rendezvous with the Normandy. They rattle and slam around inside the cabin. Massani's too far gone to swear anymore. Shepard grabs him with one arm and a strap with the other, her face still and pale. The freckles stand out in sharp relief.

"We should have left him," Miranda says, pitching her voice low, even though she's certain he's unconscious. "You got hurt protecting him. It was a _stupid_ risk. You're more valuable than—"

The white-hot glare Shepard turns on her is more frightening than the Praetorian's.

"That is _not_ how I operate," she says, her voice sharp and taut and crackling with intensity, and then doesn't speak to Miranda again for the next two days while Massani recovers.

* * *

Miranda doesn't feel guilty. She feels a proper sense of responsibility about ensuring mission priorities will be met in a timely manner. So, in the interest of seeing how soon he'll be fit for active duty again, she heads over to medbay to check in on Massani.

She stops halfway across the hall at the sight in the window. Massani's propped up in bed with a beer bottle in his hands, a wry grin on his face. Shepard sits on the cot next to him with a beer of her own, legs dangling off the edge. Smiling. Talking. Chakwas looks on tolerantly.

Miranda turns on her heel and beats a tactical retreat to her office.

* * *

A little later, Shepard knocks and then lets herself in. Leans back against the door, arms folded.

Miranda stands up and steps out from her desk, not in the mood to draw things out. "What."

Shepard's face is still and calm. "Is that how you usually operate?"

"You'll need to be more specific," Miranda says shortly.

"If someone's not valuable enough to you, you leave them behind."

Miranda sighs. "Shepard, sometimes seeing the mission through means you have to make sacrifices. You've had to make that call yourself, before, on Vir—"

Shepard steps forward, her expression thunderous.

"That _wasn't Virmire._ Don't pretend that was anything _like_ Virmire." She jabs her finger at Miranda's chest. "Zaeed became inconvenient to you, and you wanted to discard him."

Miranda has to stop herself from rolling her eyes. "Protecting him could have gotten you killed, Shepard. The mission is more important than one man; more important than any of us, except you. You're naive if you think otherwise."

Shepard's face hardens. "I've been called naive before for trying to protect people. Mostly by my enemies. Funny how I'm still here, and they're not."

"You died," Miranda points out, quite rightfully.

"And because I am who I am, you brought me back," Shepard replies. Damn her.

They stand there for a minute, breathing a little hard, eyeing each other.

"Did Cerberus teach you to treat people like disposable tools?" Shepard says.

Miranda's eyes narrow. "Did the Alliance teach you to spout off feel-good propaganda to boost recruitment numbers?"

Shepard just shakes her head. "Laugh at me if you want, Miranda, but answer me honestly. What's wrong about caring?"

It's just as well Shepard gave her permission, because she can't stop the bitter chuckle that rips out of her. _"Caring?_ You sound like a children's book."

Shepard's voice is calm. "Why is it that when children grow up, they get told to stop?"

Miranda looks at her.

Shepard steps forward. "Who taught _you_ to stop?"

The space between them suddenly feels too tight. Miranda takes a step back. "No one taught me. I learned."

Shepard takes another step forward. "You said you weren't the first one your father made. Just the first one he kept."

 _What does that have to do with anything,_ Miranda wants to yell, but has a sinking feeling she already knows. She bumps up against the edge of her bed frame. Looks sideways for an escape route. "...That's right."

Shepard steps in closer. "What happened to the others?"

Miranda wrenches her head around to stare at Shepard. "What do you _think_ happened?"

Her voice is loud and low and ragged. It doesn't sound like her.

"I think they were disposable tools," Shepard says, softly, and reaches out for her hand.

Miranda pulls back from her, eyes wide.

"Miranda." Shepard takes one last step towards her. "I think the reason you work so hard is that you're worried _you'll_ be disposed of, too."

Miranda stands rigid. Frozen.

Shepard reaches out, and grasps Miranda's hand.

"That's not how I operate," Shepard whispers, then pulls Miranda in close, and wraps a long, warm arm around her shoulders.

Miranda shakes, once, a tremor that rolls through her entire body.

Five point eight percent of her life. Five point eight percent of her life sees her, knows her, and understands.

Her life's work— the reason Miranda Lawson truly, definitively deserves to exist— is right here, tall and strong and solid and breathing and kind and compassionate beyond all reason.

She twines her arms around Shepard's waist. Splays her palms against Shepard's shoulder blades. Feels them rising and falling with her breath. Thinks about the layers of skin and fat and protein and lymph and bone and blood thrumming with life underneath.

She tips her head up, and presses her lips to Shepard's mouth.

Five point eight percent of her life looks startled for a moment.

Then Shepard makes a soft noise, buries a fist in Miranda's hair, and kisses her back.


	3. Chapter 3

Rating shifts to M for this chapter.

* * *

 **3.**

Oh. Alive. She's alive, alive, alive.

It's always cold on the ship, but Miranda's body is flushed, her breath steaming in the recycled air. She grabs hold of Shepard's uniform collar and yanks her in close. Their tongues slide together.

Shepard's teeth are even and straight. Just as she made them.

"Ms. Lawson," Shepard breathes against her mouth, low and amused.

Miranda growls at her and bites her lip.

Shepard chuckles and winds Miranda's hair tight around her hand, pulling her head back. She kisses her long and hard. Presses her thigh between Miranda's legs.

 _Nnnf._ It's all Miranda can do to restrain herself, and not shamelessly grind against her. Then Shepard wraps one warm, heavy palm around the curve of Miranda's ass, and does the grinding for her.

"God," Miranda stutters out. Her underwear is already soaked, and pressing up into her. Her hips roll, once, instinctively.

Shepard's eyes crinkle. Miranda glares at her, then tucks and falls backwards onto the bed, pulling Shepard down with her.

Her leg hooks around Shepard's hip. A quick twist and she's on top. She slams her palm into Shepard's chest, holding her down against the mattress. "You've ruined my life. You know that, right?"

Shepard gives her a broad, untroubled smile, and flicks open the snap on Miranda's uniform top. "Let me make it up to you."

"You couldn't even begin to try," Miranda retorts, but then has to reconsider her opinion when Shepard snakes a hand in to cup her breast. A gun-calloused thumb drags over her nipple, slowly, deliberately.

Miranda sucks in her breath. Shepard takes advantage of her distraction to flip them over again, and bears her full weight down on her, pressing hip against hip. Her tongue traces a long, hot line down Miranda's breastbone.

Enough. Miranda bares her teeth, hooks her fingers into Shepard's collar, and yanks. The snaps rip from the fabric and ping onto the floor.

"I'm going to need to requisition a new uniform," Shepard says mildly, looking down at her.

"Shut up." Miranda fists her hands in the ruined fabric. Pulls Shepard down on top of her, and bites her hard on the the side of her pale throat.

Shepard actually moans, and that long, beautiful body shivers against hers. Miranda flushes. One point to her.

She makes short work of Shepard's uniform top. Shepard tries to distract her with wet, dizzying, breathless kisses, but Miranda is a professional. And very good at her job.

She pushes her hand against Shepard's chin and shoves her off. Sits up, swings a leg over, straddles Shepard's hips, and runs her hands up along the curve of that well-muscled waist. Skates her fingers under the thick fabric of Shepard's sports bra, and snaps the elastic. "Get rid of this. Then put your hands by your sides, and don't move."

"Yes, ma'am," Shepard murmurs, a glint in her eyes, and it's done.

Miranda spares a moment to take in the sight of Commander Jane Shepard, lying topless and flushed underneath her. She knows her. Every last millimeter of that smooth, pale skin. Every little blood cell coursing through her overheated veins.

Shepard was her project, but now she's a person. Up and running around and rampaging through merc bases and mouthing off and sharing all of herself with everyone, her easy smile and her open laugh, her listening ear and her indomitable will, without even having to think twice about it.

It makes Miranda want to _hurt_ her. How can she possibly hang on to that heartbreaking kindness? Those noble ideals? Doesn't she know what kind of galaxy this is?

She reaches down and brushes over one rose-pink nipple with her fingers. Then twists, viciously, sinking in her nails.

Shepard gasps and arches up against her, and Miranda mentally adds another point to her tally, but then notices the _look_ Shepard is giving her. Dark and intent and burning with unspecified promise.

It's a little frightening. Good thing Miranda doesn't frighten easily.

She lets her biotics bloom to life. Traces her palm, thrumming with electricity, down over Shepard's skin. Skims the tips of her glowing fingers just barely over her other, untouched nipple. Shepard trembles and hisses through clenched teeth.

"I could do this to you all night, Commander," Miranda says, voice low. "Keep you itching for it. Never give you what you need."

She cups those beautiful breasts in her burning hands. Tiny flicks of blue-white lightning dance over the surface of Shepard's skin. Shepard swears and pants and writhes under her touch. Miranda can guess what she's experiencing: a hardline connection straight to her clit. A thousand needles through her nerves.

She lets the energy feather out and fade away. Shepard sags against the mattress, and draws in a deep, ragged breath.

"...But you won't," Shepard says, watching her out of slitted eyes.

"We'll see." Miranda scoots lower, unzips Shepard's trousers, and tugs them down over her hips. Presses her hands to those long, muscular thighs, and spreads them apart.

Well, well. Shepard's even wetter than she is. Miranda holds her hands up. Her fingertips flare with energy again.

Shepard sucks in air, watching her.

"Remember. _Don't move."_

Miranda leans forward, and delicately extends her pointer finger. Holds it in the air, inches away from Shepard's clit. The biotic field curls and writhes around her skin.

She moves closer, closer, holding her hand steady, her eyes locked on Shepard's.

When the field makes first contact with Shepard's clit, she makes a thin, high-pitched noise. Her legs thrash, sending Miranda lurching forward, but she was prepared for it, and catches herself against the mattress.

Slowly, Miranda closes the distance, and cups her entire, lightning-charged hand over Shepard's mound.

Shepard _yells_. The biotic field buzzes between them like a storm caught in a bottle. Miranda watches Shepard sweating, cursing, struggling, half trying to escape, half trying to drive Miranda's hand straight into her.

One hundred and eighty six pounds of muscle, cybernetics, and steel, reduced to a desperate, shaking mess. It's quite a sight.

Miranda takes mercy on her after a long moment, and pulls away, letting the energy dissipate.

Shepard lies flat on her back, gasping.

Miranda examines her handiwork. She _does_ feel a little better. Three points. She can afford to be generous, now.

She bends forward and runs her tongue up Shepard's cleft. Her clit is dark and swollen and standing out from her folds. Miranda laps at it, swirls her tongue over it, softly, softly.

Shepard lets out a long, breathy moan. Then her fingers pat at Miranda's face. Grab hold of her chin, and pull her up.

"I thought I told you not to move," Miranda says, eyes narrow.

"I don't want to come without you," Shepard murmurs, and pulls Miranda on top of her for a deep, lingering kiss. She nips Miranda's bottom lip with her teeth. Licks her own taste up from Miranda's tongue.

Miranda softens a little. Kisses her back. "...That's mutiny."

"Execute me later, Ms. Lawson. I'm on a mission." Shepard shifts so they're lying side to side, and runs her hands down Miranda's chest, popping open the hidden snaps. She unbuckles Miranda's belt and flings it against the wall. Wraps her large, warm hands around Miranda's ankles, and pulls her boots off, one and then the other.

Shepard seizes her zipper between her teeth, and pulls it down, down, down. Her breath puffs against Miranda's skin. She peels the catsuit down over Miranda's hips, and then her legs, slowly, delicately, like someone unwrapping an expensive gift.

Shepard pushes herself up on an elbow and looks at her, eyes heavy-lidded, dark, then reaches an arm back and drops the catsuit onto the floor behind them. Her gaze never leaves Miranda's.

Miranda has never been particularly shy; her body was made to be looked at, after all. But something about the quiet intensity of Shepard's regard is getting under her skin.

Her cheeks flush. "Are you just going to stare at me all night?"

Shepard's voice is low and husky. "I'm thinking about it."

But she moves. She stretches back down next to Miranda. Looks into her eyes for a long moment, and cups her heavy, calloused palm around Miranda's cheek.

There's something oddly tender about it.

Miranda watches her, feeling strange. Off-kilter. She frowns. "Well?"

Shepard presses her lips to hers. Wraps her long arms around Miranda's back, and pulls her in close.

Ahh. Skin to skin. Heartbeat to heartbeat. Shepard is warm and solid and twined up with her like she's never going to let Miranda go.

Despite herself, Miranda's eyes flutter closed. She tilts her head, deepening the kiss. Reaches up and curls her fingers into Shepard's hair.

Shepard strokes her hands over Miranda's waist, hips, tracing the curves of her expensive body. She brushes her fingers over the swell of Miranda's breasts. Flicks and pinches one dusky nipple, and smiles when Miranda shudders.

"You're so beautiful," she murmurs, against Miranda's lips.

Miranda tenses.

Shepard blinks at her, and pulls back. "I'm sorry. That's not something you like to hear, is it?"

"I—" Miranda looks away. "I don't want to discuss this right now. Just touch me."

Shepard presses her hand back to Miranda's cheek, looking at her with— hell, this is _exactly_ what she didn't want. Compassion. _Pity._

Miranda huffs out a breath, pushes Shepard away, and sits up, feeling disappointed and— wrong, somehow. She'd always flaunted her nudity in front of previous lovers. Now all she wants to do is find her uniform. And then maybe a blanket.

She's startled by the weight of her comforter falling onto her shoulders. Shepard wraps an arm around her and pulls her blanket-shrouded body back into an embrace.

"You don't feel like you own it," Shepard says, quietly.

"I _don't_ own it. This..." Miranda gestures down at herself. It's all concealed under the covers, at the moment, but she can't ever get away from it: her flawless skin, her ample breasts, her curving hips. "I didn't do this. I didn't choose this. I use it. That's all."

Shepard is silent for a moment, and squeezes her. Presses her face to the back of Miranda's neck, and leaves a small, soft kiss.

Shepard sticks her arm out, and holds her palm in front of Miranda's eyes. "I didn't choose my body, either." Fine, pale surgical scars thread across her hand and down her wrist.

Miranda remembers every single one of them.

"I had tattoos, and burns, and bullet scars, and some shrapnel in my butt that always gave me grief. All of that is gone now. Like it never happened."

"You're welcome," Miranda replies. "It took quite a while to dig all that metal out of your ass."

"Thanks. That part, I don't miss. But the rest of it..." Shepard wiggles her scarred fingers. "I didn't ask to be born the way I was born, either. But I took what I had, and I used it. And using it made it mine."

Miranda reaches her hand up through the masses of comforter that surround her, and traces a fingertip slowly down the line of Shepard's palm.

"Now I'm brand new," Shepard murmurs. "Unused. Just as you made me."

"So now you're mine, instead," Miranda says. Her voice sounds odd to her own ears. Half bitter. Half wistful.

"For a little while." Shepard pushes her face into the tangle of Miranda's hair, and presses another kiss to the back of her neck. "Until I find some replacement shrapnel."

...Who is she kidding. Shepard stopped being hers the moment she got off that slab.

Miranda stares out at the blank wall of her cabin, and doesn't move. Doesn't speak.

Shepard closes her fingers around Miranda's hand.

Her voice is low. Soft. "I hate that he still has this pull over you. I hate that you don't think you own yourself."

"Shepard—" Miranda squeezes her eyes shut. "I thought I said I didn't want to discuss it."

Shepard doesn't respond for a moment. Then: "Have you ever considered getting a tattoo?"

Miranda twists back around to stare at her. "What?"

Shepard gives her a half-grin. "I mean it. Like a giant eagle. You could put it right in the middle of your chest." She stretches Miranda's arm out from the covers and taps thoughtfully on her bicep. "Or maybe a bleeding knife, right here. That'd look fantastic."

Miranda smacks her hand away. "Stop talking nonsense."

"Would he approve?"

"Of course not."

"Well, then." Shepard smirks like she's just proven something.

Miranda rolls her eyes and sits up. "I'm not getting a _bloody knife_ tattooed on my arm just to spite my father."

"I can come up with other things you could do to spite him."

"I bet. Shepard, honestly—"

Shepard sits up too, and leans into her. Their foreheads bump together. Her eyes are hard. "Like listening to me when I tell you that you're beautiful."

Miranda swallows. "I—"

Shepard holds up a hand to silence her. "Like believing that being you is good enough. That I don't want or need you to be anything else other than exactly what you are. And if doing those things is too hard for you, if you can't get there yet, then at least believe in me. Because _I_ believe it."

Miranda realizes her jaw has fallen open, and closes it.

Shepard raises a finger. "...But I do reserve the right to butt heads with you about mission stuff. We're not leaving people behind. Not ever."

Miranda grabs Shepard by the hair, and presses a fierce, bruising kiss to her mouth.

Shepard grins against her lips, and slowly unwraps the blanket from Miranda's shoulders.


End file.
